Holy Duty
by Xavier Everett
Summary: The Fannfictione they COUD NOT banne! Two countrees fighting inn the depthes of the Dessert over a Diske gone MADDE! STARING Carrot Ironfoundersson! Sam Vimes! Assortede Omnians, Klatschians, Gorgonnes, and maney, MANEY MORE! THRILS! ADVENTURE! ELEPHANTS!
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. The Discworld and all its inhabitants are the property of Terry Pratchett, and while some of the characters appearing later are of my invention, they are part of the Discworld and thus remain the property of Terry Pratchett (I think).

Enjoy the story!

* * *

Prologue

Religion can affect the most prominent of people.The Disc's best and brightest.

Take Leonard da Quirm, for example: rumour has linked him to Yen Buddhism, Omnianism, the Church of Offler, and the Balancing Monks. However, rumour has also linked him in a very different manner to Lord Vetinari, Prince Khufurah of Klatch, Rosie Palm of the Seamstresses Guild and Unseen University's Librarian, suggesting that not all rumour is to believed.

Lord Vetinari has also been linked to the Balancing Monks, although it is widely believed that after the balancing act needed to keep Ankh-Morpork from descending into total disarray, a gargantuan disc would present no problems.

Even gods get religion, sometimes, and while they may not be the best, and certainly aren't the brightest, they're certainly quite prominent, and you'd do good to agree unless you want to be in serious existential difficulties, i.e. a pair of shoes filled with a smoking pile of ash.

In two countries around the Circle Sea, two gods were starting to get religion. In a big way. And, as we all know, religion only ever leads to one thing. War. But gods don't war each other: not in the literal sense. That's how continents get destroyed. Instead, they send their people off to fight. And when two large nations prepare for war, the reverberations are felt all over the Disc…


	2. Chapter 1

**-1 -**

Sam Vimes sat in his office, and stared at the walls. It was quiet today out on the streets of Ankh-Morpork - well, as quiet as Ankh-Morpork got, which was albeit noisier than most towns - and his eyes shifted towards the mountains of paper amassing on his desk. He supposed he should get some paperwork done today: he hated seeing the worried expression on Carrot's face whenever he came in. He took a sheet off the top of one of the many piles (being careful not to unbalance them, of course) and his eyes flickered as he looked at it for a moment.

Vimes, on the rare occasions he did his paperwork, had developed a technique of looking at the name of the person who had sent it, looking for a dotted line, and looking for figures. It had come to his attention that most of the paper sitting on his desk could be divided into a few small categories.

There were complaints from the Campaign for Equal Heights and the Silicon Anti-Defamation Group, and his general response to those was to throw them into the fire. The dwarf and troll groups complained about _everything_, including the fact that there was in fact very little to complain about. Vimes wasn't prejudiced: a lot of his friends and fellow Watchmen were in fact dwarves and trolls. However, he had worked out quite early on in his life that the Equal Heights campaigners were in fact a group of stroppy little buggers who'd been called _bzug'da hiara_ one too many times and had decided to fight back with the most potent weapon known to man - paperwork - and that the Silicon Anti-Defamation Group was just a bunch of business-minded trolls (i.e. Chrysophrase and his followers) who had seen the success that the Equal Heights campaigners had had and had decided to, as most trolls put it, start "jumping up and down on the bandwagon".

Then there were bills from people like Burleigh and Stronginthearm (weapons), Cable Street Haberdashery and Outfitting (uniforms) and the blacksmith on Gleam Street (armour). He found it best to just sign these: in his opinion, bills didn't go away if you ignored them.

A third type of paperwork was official reports that he had to sign. Most of them he signed without question: some, however, he was forced to read. Nobby was prone to much exaggeration, which was often questioned if he let it slip through; Carrot and Fred were both haphazard spellers, and employed what he called the "artillery fire" form of punctuation, meaning that they went everywhere, and if it was in the right place, that counted as an added bonus; Visit, or to give him his full name, Visit-The-Infidels-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets, put so much religious propaganda into his that Vimes spent as much time editing them as he would have taken writing the actual report himself.

Anything else Vimes filed in his mind under "other", as other paperwork so rarely appeared. He started to read a letter - he usually didn't, but this one was from Mr Slant, and lawyers' letters should always be read _extremely_ carefully - but before he could get started, there was a creaking sound outside his door.

"Come in, Detritus," he said, and Detritus opened the door and entered.

"Dere's a letter from der Palace, sir," he said. "Just come in. Washpot said you'd get it soon enuff, but I fort to myself, _der Commander might want to see dis right away_. So I come up here to give to you pers'nally, sir."

"Thank you, Detritus," Vimes said, taking the envelope from him, peeling the wax seal off, and taking the letter out. After a moment or so, he looked over the letter.

"You may go now, Sergeant Detritus."

"Yessir."

Detritus left, with the walls of Vimes' study warping inwards as his immense weight shook and distorted the corridor outside. He was a good sergeant. As Detritus himself had once said, "dose two short planks, dey's as fick than Detritus", but Vimes didn't like undue intelligence in a copper. _He_ certainly didn't have it. No intelligent man would have taken on Toothless Harry and his five-strong gang single-handed, or chased the Rime Street Stabber through a mile and a half of the Shades before finally concussing him with a brick halfway down Treacle Mine Road. No sane man would have done that. However, no-one but Vimes would have been _able_ to do that. Intelligent men, despite all of their book-reading and such, wouldn't have been able to pull off the Ankh-Morpork Handshake, which was exactly what he had used to get one over on Toothless Harry. He read the letter that had been sent from the Palace. It was reasonably short.

_Sir Samuel,_

_The Patrician requests your audience at two o' clock in the Oblong Office, regarding certain international matters.  
Yours sincerely,_

_Drumknott (Aide to the Patrician)_

Vimes put the paper down on his desk. _What the hell did Vetinari want this time?_ Nevertheless, he got up, and went to the door of the Watch House, only to find his wife waiting at the door.

"Sybil?" he said. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, just collecting some money. Nobby said he'd rattle a tin around and try to get some money in for the Sunshine Sanctuary."

"Really?" he said brightly, but inside he sighed. Poor gullible Sybil. Getting money out of Nobby was like trying to get blood out of a lawyer. However, just as he thought this, Nobby Nobbs came out of the Watch House with a tin of money.

"How much did you get?" Sybil said.

"About ten dollars, at first, but then I threatened to breathe on them and it was surprising how much more money I got."

Vimes watched as his wife took the tin from Nobby.

"Nobby? Are you wearing a Whinny If You Love Dragons _badge_?"

"Yessir!" he said. "Honorary member of the club, me!"

Vimes took a while to take this in.

"Nobby, you have unsung facets."

"Yessir! But I've got a special cream for it."

"Anyway," Sybil said. "As you're here, maybe we could go out for a walk or something. The baby's at home with Mrs. Crick, but we could pick him up and then go out for a walk. Get some fresh air."

"Fresh air? In _Ankh-Morpork?_"

"Well then, maybe we could go outside the city for a change," she said, hopefully.

"Sorry, dear. Wish I could, but I've got business with Vetinari."

"Oh, really? Well, say hello to Havelock from me."

"Yes, dear."

"You're not going to, are you?"

"No, dear."

"Sam!"

"What?"

"I wish you'd _listen_ once in a while!"

"I was listening. But I don't like talking to Vetinari. The man worries me."

"I know you don't. But just try, for once. For me?"

Vimes sensed that the only way out of this conversation was to consent.

"Yes, dear."

"Good. I expect he gets lonely: it suppose it's nice for him to have someone to talk to, even if it is 'official business'."

"Lonely? Vetinari?"

"You don't think so?"

"Not really. The man's…different to all of us. I wouldn't be surprised if he's lived his life alone."

"I'm sure he's human underneath all of the layers, Sam. Just like you. Don't you agree? You don't seem that nice on the surface, but there's a person _beneath_ the surface. Maybe it's the same with Havelock. Try to talk to him."

"Yes, dear."

"And don't cause trouble. You know I hate it when you and Havelock row."

"Yes, dear."

"I have to hear about it for weeks from my friends."

"Yes, dear."

"Off you go, then."

"Yes, dear."


	3. Chapter 2

**- 2 -**

Lord Havelock Archibald Vetinari, MSCCE (A. Guild, Full Hons.), sat in the Oblong Office, and toyed with some paperwork for a couple of minutes. After a while, he pressed down the button on his desk. Leonard had developed this machine, and it did make communication between him and Drumknott much easier. As it allowed _inter_-room _com_munication, Leonard liked to call it the speaking-without-tubes-device-that-allows-you-to-talk-to-someone-in-another-room-quickly-without-having-to-raise-your-voice-or-do-any-running-about-or-anything. Vetinari sighed. Leonard might be a genius, but in the field of naming…

"Lord Vetinari? My Lord, are you there?"

"What?" he said, lost in thought, but then not wishing to seem anything other than totally in control, continued with, "…did I tell you about protocol, Drumknott?"

"You told me it was one of the only methods of keeping the city in order, sir."

"Do you not consider yourself part of the city, Drumknott?"

There was a dangerous edge to his voice as he spoke.

"Er…well…"

"Of course you do. So can we return to the original agreed protocol?"

Drumknott sighed in the next room. Vetinari couldn't hear it, but he knew Drumknott too well not to be able to anticipate his very action.

"Speaking-without-tubes-device 1, this is speaking-without-tubes-device 2. Can you hear me? Repeat, do you read me, Victor One?"

Vetinari paused.

"What was that, Drumknott?"

"Sorry, sir. It just…seemed appropriate."

"Well, let's stick to the original protocol, shall we?"

"Yes, sir. Can you hear me, speaking-without-tubes-device 1?"

"I can hear you, speaking-without-tubes-device 2. Is Vimes still there?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"How long has he been waiting?"

"About three quarters of an hour, my Lord."

"Does he look angry?"

"…Angrier than when you last asked, sir. He's started hitting things."

Vetinari permitted himself a small smile. That would be good enough.

"Send him in, then."

"I read you, Victor One. Over and out."

Vetinari sighed. He was all in favour of new technology, in moderation, but when it caused a man like Drumknott to come out with such odd things, it worried Vetinari. He didn't understand it, and this worried him ever more, because he was expected to understand _everything_.

He heard the weighted floorboard in the corridor outside the Oblong Office squeak, and began to count under his breath. After twelve, which was where Vimes would just be drawing his hand back to knock on the door, he said,

"Enter, Sir Samuel."

The door opened, and Vimes came in, looking both impressed and angry, which is a hard expression to pull off, but Vimes managed it. The Patrician was disappointed – he had hoped for incredulous rather than impressed – but he didn't show it, instead gesturing to a chair.

"Please, Sir Samuel," he said. "Sit."

Vimes did so.

"So," Vimes said. "What are these international matters, then?"

Vetinari smiled.

"Always so urgent to get down to business, Sir Samuel. Are you not even going to relay your wife's message?"

Vimes's face turned an odd purple shade, and Vetinari smiled wider, exposing sharp canines. Ah. Now _there_ was incredulous.

"What…how did you…"

"Settle down, Sir Samuel. Your wife tells me constantly of all the messages she tells you to give to me that never arrive. I simply assumed that today would not be an exception."

"She says hello."

"I see. And how is she? How is she coping with Sam?"

Vimes paused.

"Well…I can be a little awkward at times, admittedly, but I see no reason why…"

Vetinari sighed.

"I meant little Sam. Your son."

"Oh, she's in her _element_: she's been hiring nursemaids; changing nappies; buying baby clothes, baby toys…baby everythings, really. You know."

Vetinari paused.

"No," he said, finally. "No, I don't know."

There was an awkward pause, and then Vetinari said,

"How is Sam taking to you?"

"Pardon?"

"How is he responding to his father?"

"Oh, he's doing great," Vimes said. "Just great. I mean, I don't see _that_ much of him, mind you, because I'm out working a lot of the time, but the time we do have together I think he enjoys. I got in trouble for trying to teach him how to handle a sword, though. Apparently a sword 'isn't a safe toy for a one-year-old.'"

"A sword?"

"Just a little wooden one – not the real thing."

Vetinari looked at Vimes carefully for a while, and then said,

"Well. Onto more important matters. The war between Klatch and Omnia."

"Wait a second…there's a war between Klatch and Omnia?"

"Not yet, but there will be."

Vimes paused for a moment, not fully able to comprehend this.

"Wait a second…_what_?"

"There is no official war yet, but it's only a matter of time. It's so close, in fact, that Omnia has begun evacuating civilians. So, firstly, I wanted to talk to you about the possibility of getting some Omnians into the City Watch. Possibly a dhorgon."

"We're supporting Omnia?"

"Well, considering the diplomatic climate between us and Klatch, we felt it was the only option."

"They're still angry about the war?"

"Very much so."

"OK. You want me to take on some Omnians."

"Yes. A dhorgon, if you can get one – we don't want the Watch to be classed as speciesist."

"Right, I've heard you say that word twice now, so it can't possibly be my ears playing tricks on me – what's a dhorgon?"

"Half-gorgon, half-human. The gorgons originates from off the coast of Ephebe, but there was a couple of incidents involving mirrors and heads being cut off and put in bags, and eventually they decided to move to somewhere more accepting."

"And they chose _Omnia_? They cut the heads off anyone – not just gorgons!"

"I think that's a slight exaggeration, Sir Samuel. Granted, the Omnian church used to be a little…"

"Merciless? Bloodthirsty?"

"…A little _zealous_, but since the Coming of their Eighth Prophet, things have really started to change. Anyway, the gorgons moved to Omnia. They live in segregated communities, of course, due to the rather irritating fact that looking at them causes people to turn to stone, but every now and then people have found a way to stop this, and there have been cases of human-gorgon relationships, leading inevitably to the dhorgons."

"So, the dhorgons…do they turn people to stone?"

"It's never been documented."

"Ah. Good. OK. Never been documented. Well, if it happens to me, I'll be sure to document the incident."

"Very well, Sir Samuel."

"Right. So, you want me to take in some Omnians…"

"And a dhorgon if at all possible."

"…and a bloody dhorgon if at all possible – I was just getting there – what else?"

"I…the city, after your success in Klatch, feels that you should form a team of Watchmen to be used for special work if needed."

"Is the city asking me, or are you?"

"_I'm_ asking you, Sir Samuel, and as Louis XIV of Quirm once famously said, '_You'd better do what I say or you'll find yourself upside down in a scorpion pit before you can say the words "Sun King". Understood?_'"

"Such an eloquent leader."

"You don't need eloquence to rule a city, Sir Samuel, although it does help. No, all you _really_ need is a sharp stick and knowledge of where to prod."

"Sir?"

"Never mind. So, you'll get a team together, and work towards getting a dhorgon admitted?"

"Yes, sir. Why are we taking on a dhorgon again?"

"To prove that the Watch isn't speciesist, Sir Samuel."

"We've already recruited zombies, trolls, golems, at least one member of _every_ clan of dwarves, gargoyles…I think we've got enough to prove our point."

"In my experience, Sir Samuel, you can never have enough to prove your point."

"But, sir…"

"You are excused, Sir Samuel. Don't let me keep you."

Vimes got up, almost knocking the desk to the floor but knowing better, then left. Vetinari counted under his breath. _One, two, three, four, five, six…_ On six, he heard a thump, a crashing sound, then someone swearing. He pressed the button on his desk to activate the speaking-without-tubes-device.

"Can you hear me, speaking-without-tubes-device…?" Drumknott's voice began, but Vetinari cut him off quickly.

"Forget about that charade, Drumknott."

"But…"

"Never mind what I said. Just call in a plasterer and a carpenter, Drumknott. It would seem that Sir Samuel has punched through the weak spot in the wall outside of my office."


	4. Chapter 3

"One, two, three, four, _one_, _two_, _one_, _two_, one, two, _pause_, three, one, _pause_, two, three, four..."

Lord Vetinari counted under his breath as he strode at an odd gait down the corridor, every now and then taking a couple of steps back, swerving violently from side to side, or taking a lengthy jump to an oddly-shaped brown stone, which was indistinguishable from the oddly-shaped brown stones surrounding it. A normal man might have judged him drunk. A mildly perceptive man, however, might have known Lord Vetinari wasn't a man for drinking, and wondered what he was doing. A more perceptive man might have noticed the slabs beneath his feet shifting and sliding slightly as he stepped on them.

Vetinari concentrated. The master architect hadn't messed around when he was building this corridor. This wasn't an "if you step one of the trick tiles the swinging blade comes down, which incidentally you can roll under" sort of corridor. This was an "if you step on any tile other than the right one the whole floor collapses and plunges you into the scorpion pit" sort of corridor.

"...one, two, _pause_, three, four, five, six, _pause_, seven, _pause_, eight, nine, _pause_, _pause_, ten."

He reached the end of the corridor, and turned the corner to Leonard's room.

"Leonard? _Leonard_?"

"He won't answer you," someone said. "He's drawing."

Vetinari whirled around, and the someone raised his hands defensively.

"Easy, my Lord. Alvin Quickwhittler. Palace Guards – Special Corps. Or don't you remember?"

A memory sparked in Vetinari's mind. This had been another idea of Drumknott's, if he recalled.

"Yes, yes. I remember. Quickwhittler. Live down on Nonesuch Street?"

Quickwhittler looked a little uneasy.

"That's...that's right, sir. How did you know?"

"It's my business to know things, Quickwhittler. No ruler ever got by on ignorance."

At least, not for very long, he thought privately. People like him generally made sure of that.

"Anyway, how's Leonard?"

"Fine. Still drawing, though. Just hit him over the head – that usually snaps him out of it."

Quickwhittler advanced, followed closely by Vetinari, and raised his hand to strike Leonard, but Vetinari noticed Leonard's drawing, and said,

"No!"

Quickwhittler hesitated for a moment, lowering his hand a little, and said dismissively,

"He's nothing particularly special, Lord. Just good at drawing and stuff, that's all."

He raised his hand again, and a bony fist grabbed his wrist and tightened. Quickwhittler whirled around, already unsheathing his sword despite his assailant, and wondering how such a fragile old man could be so strong. His sword was halfway out of its scabbard when he heard Vetinari say conversationally,

"I've got two daggers pointed at your back. One is tipped with the venom of the deep-sea blowfish. It'd try to make all of your cells swell to ten times their normal size. That doesn't really work on such a complex creature as the human being – it'd kill you. The other is coated with the secretions of the liver of the Ambiguous Puzuma. It'd do rather the opposite in some respects – it'd try to reduce you to a two-dimensional object. Needless to say, that doesn't really work on people either, and again, it'd kill you. There are two options. Either you sheath your sword, and leave right now, or I'm going to stab you with both of these and see what the effect is. It'd be quite interesting to watch, don't you think? Well, not from your perspective, of course, but as I'm a poisons man, it'd quite frankly be a rather fascinating experience for me."

Quickwhittler, after barely a moment's thought, re-sheathed his sword, and Vetinari's vicelike grip on his wrist relaxed. Once he was free, he ran as quickly as he could towards the only exit available to him. Vetinari made a half-hearted move to stop him, but before he could, there was a pattering of feet, a crash, a few screams, and then silence.

Vetinari pressed one of the many buttons on Leonard's desk. There was a sharp crackle, and then,

"Speaking-without-tubes-device 1 speaking. How can I help you, speaking-without-tubes-device 5?"

"Drumknott? It's Vetinari. Could you reset the floor in the corridor? Quickwhittler missed a step and unfortunately fell into the scorpion pit."

"Should I get him out?"

Vetinari paused for a moment.

"No. Leave him in there for a while. After all...he's nothing particularly special."

"My Lord?"

"Nothing, Drumknott."

"Er...sir...was that missed a step, or 'missed a step'?"

Another pause, and then, in a voice completely devoid of emotion,

"I fail to see the difference, Drumknott."

"Ah. Thought so. I'll get the floor back up, sir."

"Thank you, Drumknott."

Vetinari pressed the button to turn the machine off, and turned around to face a beaming Leonard.

"Ah, Leonard!" Vetinari said, smiling. "Your drawing finished, then?"

Leonard nodded.

"Indeed. You like the speaking-without-tubes-device, my Lord?"

"It is certainly very helpful, Leonard. But the name needs some working on."

"You didn't like it?"

"It…lacked finesse."

"Ah. I thought so too, but what sort of name could one _possibly_ give to a device offering inter-room communication?"

"What sort of name indeed? Changing the subject, just out of interest –"

He pointed at the drawing Leonard had just finished.

"Is that design feasible?

"Oh, yes," Leonard said. "All of my designs are feasible, my Lord. Coffee?"

"What?"

"Very-fast-coffee. I've finally got the machine working. The idler device was interfering with the jockey wheel on the milk pulley. Milk and sugar?"

"Two sugars – no milk."

"Very well, my Lord."

Leonard pressed a series of buttons on the front of the machine. It whirred a bit, gave out a few worrying noises, and then an empty mug dropped down into the opening at the front. There was a smashing sound, and Leonard quickly replaced it with a new one.

"Haven't quite been able to perfect the folding on the paper ones yet," he said apologetically, as the new mug filled with coffee. After a while, the Patrician remarked,

"The mug's overflowing."

"It should stop soon," Leonard said. After a while, he pressed a button on the top. The machine gave out a small, almost apologetic noise, and the flow of coffee stopped. He took the mug, wiping the excess coffee off with a handkerchief, and handed it to Vetinari.

"Haven't got the stopping mechanism right yet either," he said.

Vetinari took a sip. His face, which he could normally keep straight in any crisis, contorted.

"Leonard…this tastes _nothing_ like coffee."

"…Again, that's something that needs to be worked on."

Vetinari decided not to go on any further, instead returning back to Leonard's sketch.

"And this device…you're sure it would work?"

"Well, it's probably the idler device again. If I could get that sorted out, I could possibly…"

"Not the coffee machine – _this_!"

He gestured again at Leonard's drawing.

"Like I've said, my Lord, I'm certain that the principle is sound. I haven't had time to test it yet in full size."

"I would have thought that it would have been too heavy to stay up for any length of time."

"It's all about lift, my Lord. If you take a look at my observations on the wing structures of the red-necked Morporkian spoonbill and the Ankhian straight-ruffled falcon, I've just cross-applied the principles to my new design."

"Leonard…both the red-necked spoonbill and the Ankhian falcon are _extinct_ in the Circle Sea region. They haven't been seen around here for decades."

Leonard paused for a moment.

"I can't see how that would affect my results, my Lord."

Vetinari gave one of his rare smiles, and then said,

"What do you call it?"

"Well, my Lord, as it travels on an _aer_ial _plane_…"

He waggled his eyebrows.

"I've called it a going-up-in-the-air-device."

Vetinari sighed. Some things never change.


	5. Chapter 4

"Draw up a team, captain?"

Fred Colon's big, round, red face screwed up in confusion and the effort of thought.

"Why?" he said eventually.

"I have absolutely no idea, Fred," Vimes said, sighing and lighting a cigar. "All Vetinari would tell me is that Klatch have got a bloody invasion bid going on."

"Klatch? I mean, I thought we settled _them_ just the other year, captain."

"We did. They're not invading us. They're going after Omnia this time. Some religious falling-out, no doubt."

"Then…then what does his Lordship want with us, captain?"

"Ankh-Morpork is to side with Omnia on this one."

Colon's face screwed up again in thought. Finally,

"Why, captain?"

"Again, Fred, I have no idea. Oh, and Fred?"

"Yes, captain?"

"You don't _have_ to call me 'captain'."

"Yessir!"

Vimes paused for a moment, but then gave up.

"Good," he said. "So. Interested?"

Colon paused for a moment, and squirmed uncomfortably.

"Er…I…I don't think I can. Sir."

Vimes's brain paused for a moment as it encountered an unexpected response.

"Why not?" he said, after a while.

"Er…it's Mrs Colon, sir. She says I can't go off on no more wars."

"She does?"

"'Fraid so, sir. Says it's bad for my heart, sir."

Vimes glanced at Colon's stomach, and just about prevented himself from voicing the opinion that if something was going to happen to his heart, it would have already happened. Instead he said, albeit rather gruffly,

"Well, fair enough, Fred, fair enough. I don't think anyone would dare to get on the bad side of Mrs Colon, personally, so I think I'll exempt you from the team."

"Yessir."

"Um…Fred?"

"Yessir?"

"You don't have to call me 'sir' either."

"Yessir."

* * *

"A team, sir?" Nobby Nobbs said, leaning forward over Vimes's desk with a look of innocent inquisitiveness. However, when Vimes took the marble-and-gold ashtray that Sybil had bought him a couple of months ago and stowed it safely in a desk drawer, Nobby retreated to slouching in the chair. There was no such thing as a spontaneous look of innocence on Nobby's face. It wasn't a face to which innocence came easily. The rule of thumb in the Watch House was that if Nobby looked innocent, it meant he was plotting something. 

"Yes, Nobby. A team. Vetinari thinks there's going to be some sort of war between Klatch and Omnia, and he wants a team from the Watch ready to go off to Omnia when that happens."

"A war? So we're going to be out on the battlefields?"

Vimes saw the look of innocent inquisitiveness in Nobby's eyes.

"Probably. Though it'll be slim pickings for you, Nobby – the Klatchians and the Omnians mostly wear sandals."

Nobby's face fell. Boots he could sell, but a city with a million residents and no sewers didn't have much of a market for sandals.

"Jewellery?" he asked hopefully.

"Maybe on the Klatchians. The Omnians think it's unholy and won't wear it."

"Really? Unholy?"

"Well, can _you_ see Constable Visit with an earring and a necklace?"

They shared the image. It was true that the image of Visit – a man who had once refused to wear a pair of shoes because their shape was apparently 'obscene and provocative' – with jewellery was one that didn't come easily to the mind.

"Well, not really," Nobby said. "Anyway, I think I'll pass on this team."

"You'll what?"

"I just don't think I'd be of much use, sir. I think I'd be put to better use in Ankh-Morpork…"

"Because there's so much more jewellery to steal?"

"Well…not in so many words, sir."

"Nobby?"

"Sir?"

"You're going."

"Yessir."

* * *

"A team, sir?" 

Carrot Ironfoundersson leaned over the table with a look of innocent inquisitiveness – however, this one was real.

"Is this to do with the Klatchian invasion bid?"

"Yes. How do you know about it?"

"Well, sir, there's a large Omnian population up on Esoteric Street, and a lot of Klatchians in the area around Tenth Egg Street, and I walk around there quite often – there's a couple of rather nice two-hundred-year-old dwarf-wrought bollards on Tenth Egg Street, and the Omnian-run museum up on Esoteric. It's _hard_ not to pick up current events walking through those areas, sir."

"It is?" Vimes said, and added mentally, _I certainly seem to bloody manage not to. A hundred times I must have walked down both streets in the past few months, and not once have I ever had even an inkling that there was a war on the horizon._

"Oh yes, sir. And what with what I've heard over the last few months, and the way that I've seen the Omnian and Klatchian merchants squabbling in the streets, it just seemed inevitable that something was going to happen between the two of them."

"Well, anyway," Vimes said, still trying to hide the incredulity in his voice. "Are you interested in the team?"

"Of course, sir. Anything to aid our fair city."

Vimes frowned. That was the only trouble with Carrot. He used phrases like 'our fair city'…and he really meant them. Surely that wasn't to be trusted.

* * *

"Team, sir?" 

Angua leant back in the chair.

"What for?"

"There's a war between Klatch and Omnia coming up, and Vetinari wants me to get a team together to go to Omnia if needed. Exactly what for, I don't know, but I feel you have some talents which are… er, quite rare and… er, quite often needed.

Vimes squirmed wretchedly.

"Oh," Angua said, and her voice took on a bitter edge. "You want me as a _tracker dog_."

"No! Well…well, to be quite honest…yes."

Angua sat silently for quite a long time, and said, much more warmly,

"Congratulations, commander. I think that's probably the first time anyone's ever been truly honest with me."

She flashed him one of those smiles which had men all over Ankh-Morpork lining up to be arrested, and said,

"So. Where do I sign?"

* * *

"A team, sir?" 

Vimes sighed. He was getting tired of this, and his explanations were getting shorter and shorter.

"Yes, constable. A team. I'm sure you're aware of the strained relations between Omnia and Klatch – well, Vetinari wants a team set up to go to Omnia if and when the situation escalates. Interested?"

The eyes of Constable Visit-The-Infidels-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets grew wide.

"A crusade to smite the Klatchians, as Jephenis smote the mighty fire-giant of Khazadoum?"

He looked positively thrilled at the prospect.

Vimes sighed. He didn't have time for this.

"Er…not to my knowledge, constable. As far as I know, there isn't much smiting involved. No any evil Balgrogs of Khazad-dum, either."

"Er…it's Khazadoum, sir."

"Really? I'm pretty sure that, in that pamphlet you gave me…it doesn't matter. The point is…are you interested?"

"No smiting?"

"Not as far as I know."

"Is there to be any subduing? You know – as Ossory subdued the corrupt priests of Tsort?"

"Again, I don't know. Maybe."

Visit considered this for a moment, cast his eyes upwards, muttered for a moment, then said,

"You can count on my being there. Om smiles on this team."

"Really? You got that that quickly?"

Visit looked at Vimes sternly.

"For the gods, commander… speed is not an issue."

* * *

Vimes sighed in relief as Cheery Littlebottom finally left, and started to pack his things back into his desk. So…he had Nobby, Carrot, Angua, Visit and Cheery. Colon wasn't allowed to come – in any other case, Vimes would have argued, but nobody argued with Mrs Colon – and Detritus hadn't even been considered as an option. Vimes knew vaguely about silicon brains, and the effect of temperature on them – he had experienced it directly during the last war with Klatch, and didn't wish for it to happen again. Dragging several tons of a troll who was, in his own words, "too fick ter walk" wasn't an incident he wished to repeat. He checked the time – twenty to nine – and realised guiltily that he should have been at home ten minutes ago. Sybil had arranged some sort of dinner for the city's aristocrats – Gods know what for – and she had counted on him being there. He pulled on a coat, grabbed up his packet of cigars, and rushed out and towards Scoone Avenue. 


End file.
